Pretty reckless, p.1
Pretty Reckless, page 1
Pretty Reckless
Jane Anthony
Edited by
Candice Royer
Contents
Dedication
Copyright
Glossary
Serve your Demon Serve your Demon
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Playlist
Other Books by Jane Anthony
About the Author
Acknowledgement
Dedication
For
My sweet Michelle.
Your happy ending awaits.
Pretty Reckless
Copyright © Jane Anthony 2017
All rights reserved
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without proper written permission from the author.
Cover Design by:
Author Dani René
Editing by:
Candice Royer
Proofreading by:
Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies
Sandy Ebel, Personal Touch Editing
Formatting by:
TE Black, TE Black Designs
Glossary
Greek to English Glossary
Koúkla - doll
Se agapó - I love you
ti kánis - how are you
giagiá - grandma
yasuo - hello
Eímai me énan fílo - I'm with a friend
Óchi, den eícha kánei sex mazí tou – No, I didn’t have sex with him
Geia se ólous - Hey everyone
I mikrí koúkla - My little doll
Poústis - fag
moró mou - my baby
Giagiá, aftí eínai i Chase - Grandma, this is Chase.
Petaloúda - Butterfly
Serve your Demon
The first sip is divine.
Your thirst is quenched.
But you crave another sip.
When you feel the cool liquid
touch your lips a second time, it's bliss.
You are starting to feel relaxed.
Ah but the next sip takes you to the edge.
You feel yourself lifting away.
Knowing you should turn back.
But the demon beckons you.
He waits at the bottom of the glass.
Luring you with the promise of euphoria.
The last sip goes down.
You spin into the abyss.
The darkness takes hold
and you are suffocating.
Encapsulated by the heat.
Drowning in the darkness
The bitter sweet nectar has control.
You are a servant to the demon.
©2016 Brooke Lee The Muse Poet
Chapter 1
Kat
“Katarina Andro . . . Andro . . . polls!"
The sound of my full name snaps my head upright. I'm befuddled, unsure of where I am. I must have fallen asleep. When my eyes begin to focus, I remember—I'm in jail.
Again.
The burly cop calls my name a second time. "Andropolls!"
"That's Andropoulos."
No one ever gets my name right, and it's irritating. Why couldn't I have been born with a name like Smith or Ryans? No. I had to be given a name no one can pronounce.
"An-drah-poe-los," I repeat, making sure to exaggerate every syllable.
"Whatever. Your ride's here."
Absentmindedly, I rub my eye, forgetting I'm wearing more eye makeup than a drag queen. When I pull my fingers away, they’re a muddled mess of black and purple glitter. Great. I must look like a hot mess.
I try to stand, but my rickety body is still in the vague shape of the metal chair I’ve been sitting on all night. I feel like shit. The pounding in my head intensifies when I stretch my weary muscles, and I cringe. My mouth tastes like white wine floating in a dirty ashtray. I need a shower and a bed, stat.
The name-butchering policeman takes me by the arm and ushers me out to the lobby of the station where Elena waits for me. It's three a.m., and she looks about as happy as a rattlesnake.
"Hey, Ma. You're lookin’ good."
Pandas cover her pink fleece pajamas, and her hooded sweatshirt doesn’t hide the crazy mane of pitch-black frizz curling around her face. I should feel worse about her having to get me from the drunk tank in the middle of the night, but right now, I'm too exhausted and ashamed of myself to care.
"Don't give me that shit, Kat. Drunk and disorderly? You're twenty-five years old! Don't you think it’s time to get your shit together?"
This woman is always on my ass. I get up and go to work every day. I pay my bills. Who cares if I want to stop and have a couple drinks every now and again?
"Whatever, Elena. I was just blowing off steam."
"Yeah, speaking of blowing . . . you tried to proposition the cop to beat the ticket?" A snort blasts like a rocket from my nose, and her eyes narrow to brown slits. "It’s not funny, Kat."
"It's a little funny," I reply, digging through my Michael Kors bag for a mint or something. Anything to take this rancid taste out of my mouth. When my mom turns away from me and heads for the exit, I follow behind her to the parking lot then plop into her Audi.
"Well, you are going to pay me back for this. I don't have the money to keep bailing your ass out." She turns the ignition and pulls out of the lot.
Great, this is going to cost me a fortune. Between the impound fees and the bail, I'm going to be broke.
All the way home, Mom remains silent, but even the constant hum of Yanni music doesn’t drown out her overdrawn sighs of contempt.
"Hey Aphro, my sweet girl."
My Yorkie, Aphrodite, greets me at the door of the house wagging her little tail, her body shaking like a hummingbird. At least someone is happy to see me.
I scoop up the little dog and trudge down the stairs to my room. Yeah, I still live with my mother. It totally sucks, but I have my own area down here, and she doesn't really bother me. Much. My bed beckons me like a lost lover, so I strip off my boots and get in fully clothed.
I know I shouldn't give my mom such a hard time, but she makes it so easy. She talks a big game, but she is always there when I need her. My mom really is pretty awesome, and I take her for granted big time. Every time it happens, I promise myself I'm going to be better. Every new day is paved with good intentions, but it just never ends up that way. I don't know what the hell it is. I'm just a perpetual fuck-up. Trouble finds me.
The sound of snorting wakes me in the morning. "Go away, Aphrodite." I push the little dog away, but she comes back, slobbering all over my face. She needs to go out.
I lay under my covers and weigh the pros and cons of getting up to take her out or just cleaning up any mess she makes on the floor. Then I remember my mom is mad at me and figure dog piss would only exacerbate the situation, so I drag my weary ass out of bed.
I pull open the glass slider and slip a Camel Menthol between my lips. The lighter sparks once, twice, three times before a flame shoots out and lights the tip of my cigarette with a crackle. I suck hard, allowing the smoke to fill my lungs before blowing the cloud out into the early morning air. I don't have to be at work for another three hours. That gives me time to clean the house and kiss my mother's ass a bit.
When I finish my smoke, I flick it into the planter near the door. Once a huge pot full of brightly colored flowers, it now serves as a cigarette butt graveyard. Mom yelled at me for leaving them all over the patio, and this was my compromise. I have no idea what I'm going to do when it’s full. Maybe that will be when I finally quit.
"Aphro, come on, girl, take a piss and let’s go." This damn dog takes forever. She sniffles around then finally squats her little ass and does her business on the grass. She scurries back into the house and jumps onto my bed. I sit down on the edge and pat her tiny, furry head. "My sweet baby," I coo. This dog is my life. It's pathetic really. I actually carry pictures of her in my wallet like she's my kid. We even got portraits taken together once. She and I both wore matching Mohair sweaters, and I dyed a portion of her hair purple just like mine. It was awesome.
Next up: shower. I'm covered in jail scum. The scalding water rolling down my body gives me the energy to start my day. When I turn the water off and reach for the towel, of course, it’s not there—it's on the floor. I wrap it around myself and walk back to my room to get dressed. The thing smells like dirty sweat socks. Add laundry to the list of shit I need to do t oday.
A pile of clothes covers the chair in the corner of my room like a mountain of fancy fabrics. They never actually make it to the closet, but I do have a system. Dirty goes on the floor, clean goes on the chair, and whatever falls between piles on my bed. I pull out a pair of yoga pants but can't find a T-shirt.
Crap.
Digging around the foot of my bed, I manage to pull out a crumpled black tee.
Score!
I pull it right side out and smell the armpit. Eh, it’s clean enough. A tumble through the dryer with one of those flowery dryer sheets will make it good as new. Dressed in nothing but pants and a clean black bra, I get started on my face.
My bathroom is like the MAC counter at the mall. It's sort of my thing. I'm the head esthetician and makeup artist at Luxe, a salon and spa in a ritzy suburb in New Jersey near my mom’s house. I actually wax half the cast of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. It’s my claim to fame, but not what I want to be doing with my life.
Most of my clothes are black, but my makeup case is where color comes alive. I swirl the various brushes around my skin, filling in areas with pinks and nudes. Makeup gives me the ability to be someone new every day if I want. It’s an art form, and I'm good at it.
I hum as my hand moves skillfully, picking up the shadows and dusting them onto my lids. I finish with my signature cat eyeliner and some false lashes. My cousin, Athena, thinks putting on false lashes every day is crazy, but for me, it’s a way of life.
Wet hair cascades around my shoulders. It’s naturally curly like my mother’s, but I always dry it straight. It’s a process. Hot air blows the hair in a million directions around my head as I run a large round brush through my thick locks. Brush, pull, blow, over and over until the result is a two-tone, black and purple mane framing my heart-shaped face. By the time I finish, I look like someone else. Perfect.
The dryer dings, and I hear footsteps upstairs. Mom’s up. I grab the shirt from the dryer and fling it over my head. Its warmth envelops me like a two-second hug before it starts to cool. I stuff a wad of dirty towels into the washer with some detergent and hit start then bound up the stairs to face the music.
My mom places a pod in our Keurig and smacks the button harder than necessary. “Mornin’, Ma.” The machine groans and hisses before the trickle of coffee pours out, filling her Nurses Stick Together coffee mug. She stares at the machine as if the swirling pattern of the falling coffee hides the meaning of life within it. “Don’t ignore me, Ma. I’m sorry. Look, I’m a huge disappointment, I know.”
“You’re not a disappointment, Kat. I just worry about you. You’re not a kid anymore. You need to stop acting like one.” When she finally looks up, she looks so tired. My mom was so beautiful at one time. I guess she still is, but the years spent living with my dad and having to deal with my antics have caused a permanent crease in her forehead and frown lines as deep as a canyon. Divorcing my dad was easy, but getting rid of me isn’t nearly as simple.
“I know, Mamá. I’ll try harder, okay? I promise.” I wrap my arms around my mother’s slender shoulders, and she pats them with her hand. “Thank you for bailing me out.”
“That’s okay, koúkla.”
I smile from behind her. My childhood nickname means I’m back in her good graces. Koúkla means doll in Greek, and my mom has called me that ever since I was born. With my jet-black hair and smooth skin, people would tell her I resembled one of those dolls made of porcelain. As I grew up, I realized it’s more of a curse than a compliment, but the name stuck nonetheless.
“Se agapó, Mamá. I love you.”
Mom untangles from my embrace and takes her normal seat at the table. I told myself I would clean, but she’s not mad at me anymore, so I run next door to Athena’s house instead. I’ll get to it. Eventually.
When Athena moved in beside us, I was thrilled. She’s always been more like a big sister than a cousin, and she’s the only one who sees the good in me. Our dads were twins, so we grew up close and look almost identical, but we’re complete opposites in every other way. She’s short like me with the same black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes, but her skin tone is lighter. She married young and popped out a bunch of kids. When my uncle Stavros died, my aunt Anna decided to downsize, and Athena bought the house. It’s part of the reason I still live here. I love being able to pop over anytime I want. Athena is my voice of reason.
I let myself into the house as I’ve done for the past twenty-something years. Athena’s voice rings from the kitchen. “Ti kánis, Kitty Kat! How are you?” She is so used to my presence she doesn’t even question it anymore.
“Been better. Think you can give me a ride to work?” I plop down at the kitchen table and sit cross-legged in the chair as my cousin continues making breakfast. There is food cooking in this house any time of day. It’s crazy.
“Where is your car?” she asks, setting the plate down and sitting across from me.
“Impound,” I warble around a mouthful of eggs.
She cocks her head with a disapproving glare. She’s such a mother. She’s only seven years older than I am, but you’d think it was twenty by the way she reacts to things sometimes. “What happened now?”
“I got pulled over. Mom had to pick me up at the police station.” I finish my eggs and take my plate to the sink. “You should have seen the piece of ass cop who pulled me over, too. Hopefully, Officer Steamy comes to the court date.”
Athena shakes her head and sighs. “You’re incorrigible, Kitty. Yeah, I’ll give you a ride. What time do you finish?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I’ll check the schedule and get back to you. Probably around five-ish, but it depends on how busy we are.” I push myself from the counter where I’m leaning and walk through the large kitchen. “Thanks, cuz. I should head back. I’m still in the doghouse with Elena and gotta kiss a little more booty. See you in an hour.”
Athena pulls up in front of Luxe, and I get out of the car. “Let me know if you need me to come back. I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay, I will. Thanks, Athena!” I slam the door and walk into the spa.
“Morning, Katarina!” Devin says in his singsong voice. My, he’s awful chipper this morning. Must’ve gotten lucky last night.
Our front desk boy has been here almost as long as I have and is probably my favorite person here. Word of advice should you ever work in a place like this: make friends with the front desk people. They are the ones who field the calls and schedule all the appointments.
I walk up to the huge white desk and lean over on my elbows to get as close as possible. “I got stopped by the hottest cop last night. Remind me to tell you about it later.” Devin lifts a manicured eyebrow with a thumbs up. He and I love sharing tales of hot guys and sordid romantic woes. He’s fabulous. The sound of my air kiss echoes through the lobby as I walk through the salon.
Half of Luxe is a nail salon and the other half a spa. The front is ultra-modern with all-natural wood and recessed lighting. The illuminated salon desks are totally chic, and the crystal chandeliers add a feminine touch. The spa where I work, is in the back. I weave through the tables, saying hello to the manicurists as I go.
Soothing music surrounds me and drowns out any residual noise from the beauty stations up front. The hardwood floors lead me directly to the spa waiting room. Unlike the salon, the spa is serene and romantic. The burgundy and black room is dimly lit with sconces instead of the sharp overhead lighting out front.
